


Disorientated

by vomisa72



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:19:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vomisa72/pseuds/vomisa72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt to sketch the beginning of the relationship of the two as roommates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disorientated

 

I opened my eyes.

The remaining pieces of my dream still haunt me, lurking at the back of my mind, hiding in the shadow of my sanity.

_There was no escape._

Sometimes I wished that I had a nervous break down, so I won’t have to deal with this anymore, my condition, but I was just not that type of people. The many years military training in Afghanistan had turned me into something that even I myself hardly recognized sometimes.

I felt nothing at all.

By the time I rose and entered the living room, I was surprised to see my friend sitting at his arm chair. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night. I was the one who always got up at all sorts of ungodly hours, not him.

“Are you expecting a client?” I asked. This was the only logical reason that I could come up with for his irregular behavior.

“No.” he answered without looking at me. Buried deep in his thought, he fixed his piercing eyes on the fireplace.

I did not want to disturbed him, so I figured I should better retire to my bedroom. Just when I was about to leave, a sudden thought seized me. I knew the reason why he was up.

I opened my mouth. Half embarrassed, half hesitated, I spoke slower than usual. “I do apologize…”

“There’s no need, my dear fellow.” he interrupted me in an almost abrupt manner.

“Well, I did tell you that I…”

“Yes.” he stopped me once again, but with a smile this time. He rarely smiles. “But you do not need to apologize, and you certainly do not have to resume to your room so quickly. Pray, sit.”

I sat on the sofa with some uncertainty. I had lost my first lodging because I screamed at night. I had warned my friend before we agreed to live together, but perhaps he had changed his mind. It was certainly understandable that he felt uncomfortable living with an individual who screamed out god-knows-what in the middle of the night.

“It was not because of you that I am awake, my dear friend.” he explained. “I was up solving some hypothetical formula concerning the speed of light, but while I was researching for my papers, I've encountered this.”

For the first time, I noticed what he had in his hand, the notebook looked way too familiar and I instantly blushed.

“It was just some gibberish…” I mumbled.

My friend laughed heartily, and he looked at me. His eyes shined with amusement. “Why, I did not mean to tease you. I have never known that you hold such a talent in writing. Do you plan to act as my _Boswell_ then, my dear friend?”

“No.” I denied almost immediately, not merely because I was irritated by the facts that he did not seem to take my writing seriously. I confessed that I was not a literary man. I am still not. I was but annoyed by something else, something deeper.

My friend only looked at me and smiled. He handed my writings back without saying another word.

We sat in silence for a while. He stared at the ceiling with a dreamy and vacant look, and I glared at the fire place, holding on to my notebook tightly, wondering if I should cast all these horseshit into fire.

“Do you believe in atonement?” at last, I asked. This is one of the things that has been troubled me for years, and I have always thought that it would great if I could consult my friend for his personal opinions. I just could not find the right time of asking. Maybe there is none.

My friend smiled, moved his head from side to side as he always did when he was appreciating a private joke. “Define atonement.”

“Redemption. Confession of guilt. Wash off your crime. Atonement.” I said.

“The Greco-Roman sorts of atonement then, like Hercules, who killed his wife and children, performed labors, and thus was redeemed.” he said. “In that case, no, I do not believe in atonement.”

“What kind of atonement do you believe in?”

He shrugged. “None, I suppose.”

I was not surprised. However, I was somewhat depressed by his answer. I presumed even after all these bloody years, even as I have came to realize that there was no escape from the nightmare of the past, I still craved for a way out, however naively it may sound.

“ _Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?_ ” my friend quoted, in a language which I did not recognize. “I understand your suffering, my dear fellow, I do. I had been there myself.”

My friend has never stopped surprised me. He seemed to know everything around him. Everything and anything. By analyzing the facts, by deducing from even the smallest evidence on earth, by applying his method, there was really nothing that escaped his eagle-sharp eyes. However, he remained hidden, unknown to the whole world. He disguised himself under the cold hard mask of reason and rationale that he himself has always been a mystery. I knew nothing of his past or his family. I was once close to the point of asking him, but something in his manner showed me that question would be an unwelcome one.

“And yet, I survived. So will you, my dear friend.” my friend pulled out the pipe from his pocket, and put it in his mouth.

I must admit that I felt tears in my eyes for some inexplicable reasons. I have always remembered the day when he said “I have a feeling that we were meant to be together. That we have fought the good fight, side by side, in the past or in the future.” For the very first time in so many years, I felt as if I really worth something. He was the only one who had ever respected and understood me.

I did not want to be his “Boswell”. I wanted to be more than that. I was a soldier, and I will always be. I am now _his_ soldier. I am his sword, his shield. I will stand fighting for him until my very last breath.

“There will be a long night before dawn, my dear friend. Why don’t you get some rest?” my friend asked me gently. As he spoke, tobacco smoke came out of his mouth. The white smoke reminded me of the fog in London.

Perhaps one day, I will have the privilege to tell him that it has always been an honor. 

For me. With him.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _“Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?”_ (What place is this? What region? What quarter of the world?) is the line in Seneca’s Hercules Furens (Madness of Hercules). The line was presented when Hercules recovered from the insanity that caused him to kill his wife and children. 
> 
> Seneca (c.4 B.C.- 65 A.D.) was a Roman Stoic philosopher, statesman, and dramatist. He was the teacher and advisor of Emperor Nero, and later executed by Nero.


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